


Story Time With Uncle John

by Random_Nexus



Series: "The Furred And The Fae" - Sherlock Holmes canon-based AU [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Backstory, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Happy Ending, Homosexuality, Inter-Species Relationships, Kid Fic, M/M, Other, Prompt Fic, Shapeshifting, Story within a Story, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: It's a bedtime story for Mycroft's children(*gasp* Mycroft's got kids?!)told by their 'Uncle John'; little do the kids know there's more to the story than fantasy.Written for the Prompt:  JWP #1: "One Thousand and One Nights: Have one character tell a story to another." -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts





	Story Time With Uncle John

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s another installment in my ‘The Furred And The Fae’ series, which came about in the first place due to the Watson’s Woes July Writing Prompts of 2016. I don’t know how many of this July’s prompts I’ll be able to do, but I was excited to try this first one and my Muse had this idea right out of the gate. Hope some of y’all enjoy it. As is so often my way, we start _in media res_...

“Having won his battle with the dark elf lord and his band of spriggans, the phouka was victorious, but weary and wounded. It was the night before the full moon, though the moon had not yet risen, and so quite dark. The phouka knew the flashes of unshielded magic, as well as the sounds of battle, might well draw the attention of the people in one of the nearby villages. Though he knew those villagers were aware of the fae, even knew they feared and hated them due to the cruelty of the dark elf and others like him, the phouka could not be sure of their numbers nor if they had any amongst them who would be brave enough to try to hurt or capture one of the fae. Given all this, the phouka knew his best course of action was to flee. He also knew he was not too very far from the sea, though a few miles of wild forest lay in between, and though that distance was nothing to him when in his full power, now, in his wounded state? Well, he could not be sure he would make it, nor whether one of the selkies that lived there would be within range of his call, but then…” trailing out the last few words in a voice full of soft, suspenseful menace, John let his eyes go wide and leaned ever so slightly forward over the big tome of faerie stories—which he hadn’t actually been reading from for nearly half an hour.

“Oh no!” exclaimed a dark-haired little girl curled up under a quilt against a pile of pillows. Next to her, a boy, similar enough to be a sibling, clutched double handfuls of the same quilt as he nearly whispered, “What happened, Uncle John?”

“Yes, Uncle John,” drawled another voice from the doorway, making the two children gasp and John Watson only glanced over with a hint of a knowing smirk.

“You’ll have to sit down and be quiet if you want to hear more of the story,” replied Watson with a ‘those are the rules, the matter is out of my hands’ tone and manner.

“But he hasn’t heard the beginning,” protested the girl, blue eyes wide in her delicate face.

“Perhaps not the very beginning, my dear Allora, but he’s been eavesdropping since the bit with the enchanted badger,” Watson assured her easily. The enchanted badger who had acted as a messenger to fetch the phouka was made of whole cloth, but fit the story better than saying the phouka had been faffing about in the area after an assignation with one of the villagers and sensed the dark magic nearby. Foolishly without even a decent weapon on him.

“Eavesdropping’s not proper, Uncle Sherlock,” said the boy in a way that hinted he’d heard it a number of times before.

“Tut tut, Myron, I’ll apologise to your Uncle John later,” murmured Sherlock Holmes, going to the side of the bed and pulling back the quilt to pluck his niece up into his arms long enough to climb into the bed and settle her so that she was on one side and her brother on the other. “Here,” he said, bringing the quilt back up as much due to the chill in the night air as to allow both children to grasp it again tightly. “Now, Uncle John, do go on. What happened next?”

Watson’s eyes held Holmes’ for a moment, his lips still nearly in a smirk, though it was slipping into a genuine—if small—smile as Holmes’ niece and nephew snuggled into him under the quilt. Holmes already knew what story Watson was telling, had known it since he’d paused in the doorway a little while back. Well, he knew the real tale, but that one wasn’t really for children.

“Well, knowing he had to go through the forest, the phouka changed shape to a powerful stag, the better to suit the terrain.”

“And so people wouldn’t suspect him if they spotted him, right?” asked Allora hesitantly. Though he didn’t speak, Myron nodded enthusiastically, probably having had the same thought.

“Exactly!” Watson agreed, his tone proud. Holmes slithered his arms around the two children, pulling Allora in to kiss her raven-black head, tugging one of her dark braids teasingly.

“Clever girl,” he murmured. He also patted Myron’s far shoulder, winking at the boy before returning his almost smugly merry expression back to Watson. “So, a tired, wounded stag goes springing away through the forest.”

“Indeed.” Watson let Holmes get the story back on track, nodding once to him, but focusing on the children. “Now, you’ve seen forests, you know how there are more than just trees. There are rocks and fallen branches, hidden rabbit holes and fox dens amid the bracken. The phouka once would have passed through the forest on the swiftest hooves imaginable, leaping or dodging easily over or around anything in his path. Now, he stumbled often, getting turned around sometimes when he had to go around something, and if not for the stars, he would have got entirely lost and given up. The stars are constant, unlike the moon, and if you know your night sky—know what stars to look for in what season—then you can never be lost for long.”

Both children made little sounds of wonder and acknowledgment, while Holmes’ grey eyes sparkled above his lingering little smile—still a bit smug, though mostly polite.

“Did he find the sea, Uncle John?” Myron asked worriedly.

“Did the villagers catch him? Or—or maybe hunters!?” Allora’s eyes couldn’t have got much wider and still stayed in her face, Watson didn’t think, and he paused for effect, keeping his face from showing the answers.

“Well, though he finally, dazedly, heard the faintest sound of the waves on the shore,” Watson said, barely pausing for the two tiny gasps from his primary audience, and cupped his hand to one ear. “And yet… far, far behind him… he heard the sounds of pursuit.”

“Oh!” squeaked Allora, though Holmes petted her shoulder soothingly, saying nothing.

“Hunters,” Watson intoned. “Hunters with dogs, and no doubt guns loaded with cold iron bullets.”

“Cold iron hurts the fae, right?” asked Myron, recalling other bedtime stories from Uncle John and assorted ‘fairy tales’ over his short seven years of life.

“That’s right.” Nodding again, Watson looked over his shoulder, miming a worried face. “The phouka knew they were on his trail. Had he not been grievously wounded, nor spent most of his magic fighting the dark elf lord and his minions, the phouka could have spent a moment making his trail invisible to mortal eyes. He could even make a spell that would lead the dogs on a false scent… had he enough magic left… but he had not.” Neither child made a sound this time, but they were rapt, listening eagerly, so Watson continued. “Instead, he had to use ordinary means, smudging out his hoofprints, trying to cover any blood speckles with leaves and dirt, trotting through streams when he found them. Anything to keep them from catching him up before he left the forest and escaped down to the sea.”

“I wish I could’ve helped him,” Allora whispered.

“Me, too!” chimed in Myron stoutly.

“I know you would have, my dears,” Watson assured them, warmed by their sweet caring ways. Holmes smiled down at the children then looked across to Watson, his own expression showing not only sympathy in the moment, but the remembrance of how much more grueling the actual experience was. Feeling that particular care even more deeply inside him, Watson reluctantly returned his attention to Allora and Myron, continuing the tale. “Still, all hope was not lost. The phouka reached the last edge of the forest, though he still heard his pursuers behind him; even so, they had not caught him yet. The trees thinned out to reveal a steep, rocky shore. The sea was far, far below. He would have to climb down, which meant changing back into his human shape to make use of hands and feet for gripping. However, in his wounded, slightly woozy condition, he wasn’t paying proper attention to how close those hunting him had grown.”

Even as both children gasped again, Holmes’ brows rose, despite his knowing how things turned out. Before Watson could continue, he said quietly, as if sharing a secret, “Although it gets worse before it gets better, never fear there will be a happy ending for our brave phouka.”

Two little dark head nodded, wide blue eyes staying with Watson, and Holmes’ arms around the children pulled them in as close as possible.

“Now, as the phouka stood still for a moment, having to concentrate much harder than usual to change back to human, one of the hunters reached an unexpected clear path through the trees and he saw the phouka, pale human skin standing out in the faint starlight where the brown hide of the stag did not. The hunter didn’t hesitate, he pointed his gun and fired. Next to him, two other hunters saw where he was looking and fired as well. The phouka spun, stumbled, and fell!”

Both children gave little cries of excited distress, Allora pulling the quilt up to hide half her face and Myron nearly burrowing into Holmes’ side; neither spoke, obviously eager to know what happened, and Watson didn’t make them wait any longer.

“Wounded and already sickening terribly due to the cold iron of the bullets, the phouka could barely keep from dashing and rolling into and over the rocks. By luck as much as turning and twisting his body, he managed not to break any bones or hit his head, and soon he had come to a stop on a rocky ledge several yards above the actual beach. The rocky shore faded to sand as it sloped down to the waves and the phouka knew he could not make it much further. If he crawled along that shore, he would be utterly exposed when the hunters reached the edge of the cliff above him. What to do?”

“What did he do?” wailed Allora. “Oh, Uncle John, what _could_ he do?”

“Perhaps,” Holmes murmured conspiratorially, “there were some crevices in the rocks in which he might hide. Maybe a cave.” His grey eyes met Watson’s golden-brown gaze with a mix of amusement and something more, making Watson wonder if he was telling too frightening a tale, after all.

“Was there a cave, Uncle John?” asked Myron eagerly, not too distressed by Watson’s assessment, but still, he probably ought to remember these two didn’t get such adventurous bedtime stories as a rule. That very complaint being how they’d come to this story in the first place.

“Indeed, there was!” Lifting his tone and smiling as if pleased and proud, Watson nodded as he went on. “There was an almost perfectly hidden cave just to the side of where the phouka had come to a stop. Close enough that he thought, with a great effort, he might crawl inside and be safe from any of the hunters brave enough to come down to the shore.”

“Not very brave shooting an unarmed man,” grumbled Allora in disgust.

“True, my dear, but they were frightened and thought all the fae like that elf lord who had tormented them so long.” Watson tried to be fair, but he’d felt very much the same at the time. “With a moment’s thought, the phouka took up a largish rock and threw it in a low, shallow arc that ended with it rolling down the shore and into the waves. He hoped the trail left by the rock, bumping and rolling along the sand, might fool the hunters into thinking he’d gone that way instead of sneaking into the small cave.”

“Ooh! Clever!” whispered Myron, his sister nodding in agreement.

“Reaching the cave, the phouka curled into a little ball on the cold, sandy stone floor and knew nothing more for a time.”

“The hunters didn’t find him, did they?” Allora asked as Watson let the natural pause build some anticipation.

“As a matter of fact,” Watson replied at once, “when the phouka woke again he found several things had changed. His wounds had been cleaned and dressed, with simple linen bandages wrapped around him, and he lay on a nest of boughs and bracken instead of the cold stone floor of the cave; there was even a small fire filling the small space with warmth and golden, wavering light.”

“Who helped him, Uncle John?” Allora nearly demanded. “The hunters surely wouldn’t have done.”

“No, they most definitely would not have.” Watson smiled a little, glancing up at Holmes as he went on. “There was no one in sight as the phouka woke and looked around him, but he spotted movement in the small mouth of the cave. A dark shape against the faint starlight.” Just as the little ones leaned slightly forward, lips parting as though they would ask more in just a moment, Watson added, “It was a large, black wolf!”

Two gasps and a soft chuckle from Holmes. When all eyes turned to him, he explained, “There must surely be something strange going on, there, because a wolf could not have bandaged the phouka.”

“No, he couldn’t have,” agreed Allora.

“He wouldn’t have any fingers,” said Myron.

“True again. So, although the phouka didn’t sense any hostility from the wolf, he didn’t think the creature was necessarily happy to see him. However, the phouka realised that it was guarding him. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘the wolf belongs so someone who lives nearby, maybe someone who lives along the shore somewhere, or one of those hermit folk who eschew the company of other people and befriend animals instead, like this wolf.’ But he could not know.” Watson shrugged. “Before he could do more than blurrily think through all these things, the phouka fell into unconsciousness again. When he next woke, the cave was light enough that he knew it was daylight outside. Covering the phouka was an overcoat and there, an arms’ length away, was a man—no doubt the coat’s owner, judging by the scent on the coat and the man—kneeling nearby. The man had dark hair and fair skin, with a number of scratches and ragged places on his face and hands, as well as his upper body, which was bare above a pair of rather battered trousers and walking boots. Turning to the phouka, the man looked at him sharply, as if he could see right through the phouka to his very heart, and his eyes were the grey of a storm cloud, his face handsome despite the signs of some kind of trouble.

‘The hunters and their dogs have gone. You are safe for now,’ the man said in a low, rough voice, though his words were precise. ‘I mean you no harm.’

‘My gratitude,’ the phouka whispered, too weak to speak in a normal voice. He wondered if the man had acquired his wounds in dealing with either the hunters or their dogs—possibly both. Some of the marks did look like the sort of scratches a dog might leave, though the phouka saw no actual bite-marks.

The man waved the phouka’s words of appreciation away and turned to a tripod of long, narrow stones holding a cookpot over the flames. On the ground near the fire was a tin cup, this the man took up and held out to the phouka, steam rising from it—and the cookpot—announced its contents were something hot and savory. ‘Drink some broth; you need it,’ ordered the man.

Knowing it to be no more than true, the phouka sipped cautiously, finding a thick broth that his mouth told him had been from a stewed rabbit. It was bland, but hearty, and just what his body needed. He barely finished the small amount in the tin cup before falling into sleep again. When next he woke, the man was gone, but the wolf was again silhouetted against the night sky in the cave entrance.”

“The man left the wolf to watch at night,” surmised Allora. “Why didn’t he stay, too?”

“And the man’s scratches… did he fight the hunters and their dogs?” Myron wondered musingly. “I bet he did.”

“The phouka could not yet know,” Watson replied with a regretful shake of his head. “But that same pattern went on for another night and a day. The wolf at night and the man in the day. There was more of the rabbit stew, this time with some of the meat, some mushrooms, and some greens that had probably been dug up in the forest. Nothing fancy, but it fueled the phouka’s body so he could heal, which was happening much more rapidly without those horrid bullets in him. In fact, far more rapidly than a human would have healed. And there was another thing…” Watson lowered his voice again. “The phouka realised that the wolf and the man—as well as the overcoat being used as a blanket—all had the _same_ scent. Which should have been impossible.”

“Ooh!” Allora gasped, bouncing a little, even wriggling her toes a little under the bedclothes and quilt. Watson gave her a querying expression, eyebrows high, and she said, “The man was a werewolf!”

“There’s no such thing,” Myron scoffed.

“Just as there’s no such thing as phoukas, spriggans, or wicked elf lords?” Holmes countered leadingly.

“Oh,” Myron replied, clearly shot down by that logic.

“Well, as it happened,” Watson dove back in, trying not to grin too widely, “the first thing the phouka said on the third day, when he woke to the man kneeling nearby, his wounds also far more healed than was normal for a human…

‘You’re a werewolf.’

‘And you’re a shapeshifter of some other sort,’ the man replied smartly. The phouka could do no less than nod, as the man had saved his life.”

“I knew it!” crowed Allora.

“Very good reasoning,” praised Holmes, tugging one of her braids again.

Myron looked a little prone to pout, but Watson’s taking up the tale again distracted him from it.

“The man said, ‘I saw you in the forest. You were a stag and then you changed into a man.’ The phouka nodded again, worried, but helpless to do any less than be truthful. The man looked at the phouka as if he were a wonderful puzzle, asking further, ‘You can change at will, then?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed the phouka. ‘And you?’ he asked, having heard about werewolves, but never having met one.

‘Not really,’ the man replied, expression darkening. ‘I can sometimes change into the wolf outside of the full moon, but it is painful and difficult; however, I am unable _not_ to become the wolf when the moon is full.’ The phouka had not known this, nor had he known a werewolf could resist attacking anyone who might be considered prey, particularly when they were in their wolf form.”

“If not, he might’ve eaten the phouka!” Allora said, as if everyone hadn’t already made that connection.

“But he didn’t,” Watson said with a nod. “In fact, over the course of the next few days, the phouka and the werewolf struck up a friendship. The werewolf asked question upon question about the phouka, his powers, his people, and many things related to these. Although he was truthful in most part, some things the phouka could not answer, because the safety and secrecy of his people were more important than his single life. He did not feel the werewolf would tell anyone about the fae—even if no one would believe him—because he felt a deep core of goodness in the werewolf. It seemed the werewolf found the phouka interesting and trustworthy enough to confide in, as well; even to telling the phouka his real name, where he lived, and asking for the phouka’s own name. The phouka was reluctant, even though he owed the man a great debt for saving his life, and said so plainly. He hated to give offense, but it was a difficult decision, given what he was and whom it might endanger.

‘I have a suggestion,’ said the man, who had remained human since the night after the full moon, and who looked as if his wounds were weeks old instead of a few days. ‘We shall make a pact, you and I: you keep my secret and look after me when I have to change into the wolf; I shall keep your secret and help provide you a cover story should you wish come back to the city with me and live openly amongst the humans. We will work together to keep each other safe and protect our secrets.’ The phouka thought about this, for he had wanted to live in a human city again and this would allow him to do that while repaying his debt to the werewolf. He said—”

“Why are the children still awake?” came a voice from the direction of the bedroom door. Holmes’ elder brother and the children’s father stood there, arms crossed over his belly, with one brow high and a stern look about his heavy face. Though some of the features common to the brothers could be seen fairly easily—dark hair, grey eyes, a strong blade of a nose and stubborn chin, as well as their height—where the younger Holmes brother was lean and energetic, the elder was heavy-set and rounded everywhere. Though he had once been even larger, and the excitement of marrying and having two children had whittled some of his bulk down some, Mycroft Holmes would never be as spare of flesh as Sherlock Holmes.

“My fault, I’m afraid,” admitted Watson, spreading his hands. “Story time went on a little long.”

“Well, it’s past bedtime now,” Mycroft said firmly, turning his fatherly glare upon his children.

“But papa,” cried Allora, looking halfway to frustrated tears, “we need to know whether the phouka agreed to the pact!”

“Can’t you let Uncle John tell us that little bit more?” begged Myron with quite expressive ‘puppy eyes’ for his father.

“Oh, come now, brother mine,” Holmes said cajolingly. “They’ve come this far, just one more sentence.”

Rolling his eyes on a greatly put-upon sigh, Mycroft gestured to Watson with one hand. “Very well, one more sentence.”

Snorting and rolling his own eyes, Watson then turned to the children and thought for a moment before saying, “The phouka agreed that it was a fine idea and, once they were healed and healthy enough, they travelled to London where they…” he dragged it out leadingly.

Holmes and the two children dutifully, excitedly, and happily finished the well-known magic phrase, “…lived happily ever after!”

“Such a bother over nothing,” muttered Mycroft, though there was a hint of an upward curl to the corners of his mouth as his brother kissed the children each on the forehead and clambered out of the bed.

“Goodnight, Allora,” he said fondly. “Goodnight, Myron.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Sherlock,” both children said in chorus, then to Watson, “and Uncle John!”

“Thank you for the story,” Allora added as she snuggled down into the bed in the warm spot left by her Uncle Sherlock.

“Yes,” agreed Myron, scurrying out of the bed and over to his own, wriggling down into the bedding even as he added, “It was a great story!”

“I’m glad you liked it, my dears. Sleep well,” Watson wished them warmly as he joined Holmes near the door.

Mycroft waved them on out the door, making way by coming fully into the room and stepping aside. Holmes patted his elder brother on the shoulder as he passed, gesture enough between the two, and Watson gave a deep nod to their host, still smiling.

“Go along with you two,” Mycroft said impatiently, as if they troubled him by their very presence, but then spoke further as they were two steps beyond the door. “Sleep well and my thanks, as well.”

He then went to tuck his children in and give them gentle assurances before turning out the lamp, something he preferred to do without witnesses. Watson thought it charming, if a bit silly, but he kept his opinion to himself as he followed Holmes down to the guest suite they’d been given during their stay in the country. While it was downright chilly at night there in the well-groomed wilds of the Holmes family estate, it was dreadfully hot and humid in London, and no cases had been on for weeks; Mycroft’s invitation had been exceedingly well timed. Of course.

“What possessed you to tell them that story?” Holmes murmured softly as he closed the door to their joint sitting room and led the way to the bedroom designated as Watson’s, which they’d been sharing.

Sighing and lifting one shoulder, Watson was smiling gently. “I don’t know. I guess because there’s really no way we can tell anyone about it and… ah, well, it was perhaps foolish.”

“They’re rather bright children,” Holmes reminded him unnecessarily as he started disrobing.

“Yes, I do know,” Watson replied, because it was very much the truth. Mycroft was a genius—as was his brother—and he had married a woman who was very nearly their equal in brains and certainly their better in common sense. Or, at least, that was Watson’s opinion. Lora Elwes-Holmes was a lovely, brilliant woman who could have had any number of men younger and more typically handsome than Mycroft Holmes, but she had chosen him and allowed him the illusion of pursuing her in a roundabout way that both Watson and Mycroft’s younger brother had thought would take forever.

“And you adore them,” Holmes said a few moments later, smirking at Watson as he stripped down to his skin and paused, holding the coverlet he’d been about to turn down.

“Yes, I do, rather,” agreed Watson, voice gentle. “They’ll grow so quickly,” he said, slipping into the bed slowly, tone turning melancholy.

“Children do that,” Holmes replied, draping his nightshirt at the foot of the bed and joining Watson, also naked. “We’ll have to think of something.”

“I can make myself look older for a while, but…” Watson sighed and shook his head, even as he reached out to draw Holmes close.

“Eventually, we’ll have to go elsewhere,” Holmes concluded. It wasn’t the first time they’d discussed the matter. “I know… I know.” A long, sigh that was just as regretful as Watson’s had been.

“It will be so hard for you to leave London,” Watson whispered into Holmes’ dark hair. Despite the wisps and strands of white beginning to show in Mycroft’s dark hair, Sherlock Holmes’ straight locks were as jet-black as they’d been the day Watson had met him. In that Welsh cave, years and years ago.

“As long as I don’t have to leave _you_ ,” Holmes whispered back, burrowing his face into Watson’s neck, where it met his shoulder, and wrapping his limbs around his lover and companion.

“Never, my dear werewolf.” Watson nuzzled into the hair over Holmes’ ear, poking his nose in and blowing warm air there, which he knew would raise goosebumps on Holmes’ skin.

“Indeed, my dear phouka.” Holmes shivered a little and then settled against Watson’s body, both of them wearing almost identical smiles as they slowly relaxed into sleep.


End file.
